


there will also be singing

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anxiety, Arda Needs More Pride, Back to Middle-Earth Month, Hurt/Comfort, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Maedhros, OneRingNet Tropes Event, Other, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Intimacy, Trans Maedhros, Trauma, Ósanwe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23195581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: It is strange how despair grips them, now that it is over.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 25
Kudos: 72
Collections: Anna's Trans Anthology, Arda Needs More Pride, Back to Middle-earth Month 2020: Endings and Beginnings





	there will also be singing

**Author's Note:**

> I'm like a week behind on B2MeM but hey, we're not all perfect.  
> This is actually my submission for three different events, wow! First off, B2MeM 2020. This was for 3/10/20. My prompt from the generator was "dawn" [Beginnings] and the official prompt was this long and lovely quote:  
> “At last, weary and feeling finally defeated, he sat on a step below the level of the passage-floor and bowed his head into his hands. It was quiet, horribly quiet. The torch, that was already burning low when he arrived, sputtered and went out; and he felt the darkness cover him like a tide. And then softly, to his own surprise, there at the vain end of his long journey and his grief, moved by what thought in his heart he could not tell, Sam began to sing.” (Return of the King, Book VI, Chapter 1)
> 
> This also for [@oneringnet](http://oneringnet.tumblr.com/)'s tropes event! I went with a pretty common Russingon fic trope, [telepathic intimacy](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/190471148207/forest-of-stories-i-just-wrote-in-an-ao3). As soon as I saw that post I linked I was like "oh you mean Russingon?" because GOSH is this a big thing for Russingon!!
> 
> And finally, this story is for [Arda Needs More Pride](http://ardaneedsmorepride.tumblr.com/), a bimonthly event celebrating queer Tolkien content!! Russingon is already a very queer ship but I was feeling sad and genderqueer when I started writing this (and let's be real, all the time) so I also made Maedhros nonbinary. (Me?? projecting onto Maedhros??? it's more likely than you'd think)
> 
> Title pulled from the Bertolt Brecht poem everyone is passing around in these trying times.

It is strange how despair grips them, now that it is over. Now that they know, _believe_ it is over. When the dread and darkness was ever-present, when danger lurked in the fairest, softest visions, it was easy to laugh and fight. Easy to not give in, to let spite fuel them like their brother's body fueled their father's revenge. To not think, not regret, to only endure in the face of the Enemy.

It is _now_ that they find themself gripped with fear, an empty, bottomless thing, even though the light of dawn filters through the window and their lover sleeps peacefully in their arms. Now, when all ought to be _better_ , that they find themself in the blackest pit of their own mind.

It is the feeling of paralysis: they may be free, but there is yet so much struggle before them—before them all. Findekáno, sweet Findekáno, is warm in their embrace, his chest falling and rising in steady rhythm, but they know that he will not always be safe. That no one is safe, even now.

There is so _much_ , so _much_ to do. They must treat with Nolofinwë and his people; they are unfit to be king now, if they ever were in the first place, and must pass the crown to someone more worthy—and who? they know not yet; they must learn again to walk unassisted, to wield a sword, to speak without a stutter, to inspire confidence in an army; they must find a place in this new land that will support their father's people, and settle there, plant crops and harvest them, build walls and moats and defences; they must treat with the Sindar, so that this land is not stolen—they have burned enough stolen property, even if their hands are unsullied with the ash of the swan-ships; they must learn to write with their left hand, now that they no longer have a right; they must prepare for war, for battle, for seige, for (re)capture; they must part from Findekáno, return to their brothers across the lake, and explain to all what has happened to them in the darkness of Angamando and why they are a different nér now, if they are a nér at all; they must—

The spiral of their mind tightens, collapsing in on itself, and they realize they have begun to tremble. Perhaps it is this that wakes Findekáno, and the concern in his eyes only deepens the despair in their heart. They do not want him looking at them like this; they do not want his pity or his gentleness: they deserve neither.

"Maitimo?" he asks softly, and they flinch at the name that no longer feels _theirs_.

They shake their head. "Not that name," they rasp. They are no longer beautiful, nor the well-shaped son.

Findekáno presses a kiss to their cheek, lips brushing a new-healed scar. "Russandol," he offers instead, running his fingers through the mess of red that was once their hair. Even that vanity was no more, though it would grow again, they had been promised.

Russandol...that name, also, is unfit to what they have become, but is better than the alternatives—they want no reminder of their place in the line of succession, nor their father's Oath, and Russandol balances the sting of their ugliness and their responsibility in a way that is almost manageable. In truth, they want none of their given-names; they want no name at all, or one of their own choosing. But to explain this to Findekáno, who wants only to _help_ , to _comfort_ , would be too much, so they acquiesce: Russandol they are, for now.

"Russandol, are you..." Findekáno trails off. In his mind they can sense his uncertainty: of course they are not _alright_ , but how can he ask how best to make it better? Findekáno has done so _much_ already, in taking them from that dreadful place to this soft, safe one, in caring for them even now that they look like—like _this_ , feel like this, ache like this, _are_ like this—

 _Russo,_ Findekáno whispers in their mind, interrupting their bleeding thoughts.

They still. They have not spoken mind-to-mind with anyone since—

 _Fair Maitimo,_ mocks the memory of Þauron, rising unbidden to the surface, _what would your father think of you now, at my feet, begging—?_

 _Russo,_ Findekáno says again, firmer this time. _Russo, I'm here._

Þauron vanishes, and they take in a shaky breath. "I'm...he is..."

"Would you rather speak with our tongues?" Findekáno asks, pressing his nose to theirs.

"N...no," they say. "You can. Use ósanwë, I mean. I do not know if I..."

 _Do you want to try?_ Findekáno brushes their chin with a thumb.

They reach for his hand, twining their fingers together. It is an act of trust, to surrender what remains of their digits to him, now that they have no other hand to use.

 _I am sorry,_ Findekáno says, squeezing their hand.

"For what?" They close their eyes, let Findekáno kiss them softly as he speaks.

 _That you have no other hand to use,_ he murmurs. _That I took it from you._

"You freed me," they say, burying their face in his shoulder. For that, they will ever be indebted to him. No cost would have been too high. They expected Findekáno to shoot them, not to bring them back to Mithrim alive.

 _You are not in my debt,_ Findekáno protests, still soft. Still gentle. _I could not bear to lose you, Russo. This act, this was selfish, for me as much as for you._

"Thank you," they whisper, but the horrors of that place were greater than he could ever understand, and that they are free means more even than to be reunited with him.

Findekáno holds them tight, and they can feel him weeping. _Oh, Russo,_ he says. _I do not want it to be this way. I wanted none of this, except to hold you. To have you with me._

"I am here," they mumble. For now. Until they must leave, until they must cross the lake, until they must face the world again—

 _Let us not speak of such times, not now,_ Findekáno says, pressing a kiss to their forehead.

They lift their head. "Of my being here?" they ask, confused.

 _No, of you leaving._ Findekáno wipes a tear from their cheek. _You are not well enough to cross the lake, Russo. Do not worry, not yet._

They stare at him. "I did not speak of that. I...I thought it only."

Findekáno frowns. _Russo, you have been speaking to me, mind to mind, with brief words spoken loud._

No...no, they had not, they are sure of it. Was their mind torn open from Þauron's torment, unable to close? Panic rises in their chest, and they fall back from Findekáno, not wanting him to feel their awful pain, to know the things that happened to them—

"Russandol," Findekáno pleads, reaching out, and guilt wracks through them. They cannot do this to him, but they cannot leave him alone, either—

 _Russandol, breathe with me, please,_ he begs.

 _Get up, you awful thing,_ snarls Þauron in their mind, _do as he says._ But they refuse, they will not play Moringotto's game, they will not obey, no, they will not—

"Russo, it's me, it's your Finno," Findekáno says, reaching for their hand. "Russo, please, come back to me, Russo—"

 _I am here,_ they weep, and they fall back into him, let him hold them, let sobs wrack their body, let themself cry, a hoarse and terrible sound, let it out, let it all out.

 _It's okay, it's alright,_ he says, and he is crying with them, rubbing their scalp with calloused, frostbitten hands, there and real and with them, _there_.

 _How long have I been like this?_ they ask when they can think again. _How long have my thoughts been bleeding into your mind? into everyone's mind?_

Findekáno kisses them, his lips careful not to break open the scabs on theirs, and a warmth passes through them. They relax, melting into him, letting him cradle them.

 _Only since dawn broke,_ he assures them. _Your thoughts were racing, full of a thousand worries, spinning in circles so fast I thought you would fall apart. And when you said I could use ósanwë, but that you were not sure if you could, I thought your first attempt was successful. I did not realize you did not know._

Panic grips them. _How much?_ they demand. _How much did you see? did you hear? did you know?_

Findekáno's braids fall about them, wrapping around them like a blanket. _I heard that voice. Þauron. I could feel your pain, some of it. I saw a darkness._

 _I do not want you to be horrified,_ they say. _To be hurt. It is my pain, it is too much for another to bear—_

 _Have we not shared each other's griefs?_ Findekáno's grip around their torso tightens. _I will bear your burdens gladly._

 _But you do not share yours with me,_ they argue, and they feel him flinch. _I know only the barest details of your time on the Ice, of your grief at losing Arakáno, of your trials in finding me—_

 _I cannot give you all my pain, when you are already hurting!_ Findekáno weeps.

 _And I cannot give you mine,_ they reason.

Findekáno sighs. "Russo," he whispers aloud, and then again, silently: _Russo. I love you. Perhaps we cannot share this sorrow now, but I want to know. And—when you are better, some, I will let you know my hurts, too._

 _Not now,_ they say. Not while the pain is so fresh, to both of them. They pause. Does he still hear this thought, even though they do not intend to share it?

 _Yes,_ Findekáno admits. _I am sorry. You deserve privacy. I can cease using ósanwë, if you wish; perhaps that will make it better._

They take a shaky breath. _No. It is alright. So long as it is you alone who knows my wandering worries._

He holds them in silence, then, for some time, lets them bury their face in his chest. They can feel the sun warming their back as it rises, can hear the call of songbirds. It is warm now, after a coldness Nolofinwë told them had lasted so long they feared the Ice had followed them. But new growths push through the soil, and rains fall in place of snow, and it seems that time of dark and fear is over.

 _Russo,_ Findekáno murmurs after awhile. _I am sorry even that name does not feel yours, any longer...I heard your thoughts, then, also. Would you like me not to use any name for you?_

They hesitate. _I cannot rid myself of my names,_ they say at last.

_But I can call you only 'beloved,' when we are alone._

They nod. _I would...I would like that. Thank you._

 _Of course._ Findekáno kisses their head, heedless of the stubble. _And...forgive me, if I pry. But: you think of yourself differently now. You use different words to refer to yourself; I feel a shift in your fëa. Are you...did the Enemy—_

They raise their eyes to meet his own. _I do not know what happened, not exactly. It is not my hröa that has changed, if that is what you ask._

 _Then what...?_ Findekáno blinks. _I am sorry. You need not answer._

 _I do not feel...like a nér,_ they confess. _I know it is a nér you fell in love with. But I feel...different. Not a nís, either. I feel I am...neither. Nothing. I do not know. Perhaps it will pass._

Findekáno nods. _You are an Elda,_ he says.

 _Am I?_ they ask bitterly. _You do not know all I have done. What they tried to make me into._

 _You are just as much an Elda as I,_ Findekáno says fiercely. _That is more than enough for me. I would love you whether you were nér or nís, Elda or Maia, anything._

They do not deserve him. They do not deserve this love, this devotion. They need not even think it for Findekáno to know how they feel, but he draws them close and kisses them, long and deep.

 _You deserve all of Arda,_ Findekáno whispers.

 _I do not,_ they say, _but that you believe so means everything to me._

 _I want you to believe it, love,_ he says. _Is there anything I can do to prove it? to help you move past the darkness, and the pain?_

They look at him and wonder at how lucky they are, to love such a nér as he. How could they ask for more than he has done already, freeing them from the Enemy and loving them despite the shell of an Elda they have become?

They know he can hear their thoughts still, so they do not dwell on such things for long. They smile as best they can with their scars pulling at their lips, and they kiss him, whispering, _Would you sing for me?_

And in the face of grief and pain and memory, with all the love in his heart for them, his broken-yet-healing beloved, Findekáno began to sing.

**Author's Note:**

> Maedhros is happy to take on their Sindarin name: it's similar to what people used to call them, and yet it's new and different and they get to claim it for themself. They might go back to feeling more male later in their life, but their gender was definitely affected by their trauma. (Obligatory disclaimer that every nb experience is different, and also I am not myself a trauma survivor so sorry if I did something poorly)  
> Also, Maedhros is friends with Fin-galad in any universe, but they'll /definitely/ be friends with Fin-galad in this universe!! Fin-galad has the same sort of gender thing going on.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).
> 
> ETA 10/26/20: Now with a sequel! Linked below :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [pale-glitter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214756) by [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking)




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